


metamorphosis

by stolashoots



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Past Abuse, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships, nonviolent gore, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stolashoots/pseuds/stolashoots
Summary: Barty knows firsthand that abuse suffered as a child doesn’t define the individual, but open wounds only fester if left untreated.Perhaps handing the boy to the Dark Lord on a silver platter will be an act of mercy.-Undercover at Hogwarts, Barty realizes that not everything is as it seems.*can be read as either preslash or as a character study
Relationships: Bartemius Crouch Jr. & Harry Potter, Bartemius Crouch Jr./Harry Potter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 120





	metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> despite the tags, this does not have any slash content in it. Therefore, the relationship is up to the reader to interpret.  
> (tho if you disprove of the ship, don't read the end notes lol)

Barty doesn’t need to slip away unnoticed. The traitor Snape has already stormed out with repugnant determination to ruin the night of as many students as possible with threats of detention, and a few of the other no-nonsense teachers said their goodnights shortly after. The dignitary Karkaroff follows his Champion like a second shadow, glaring at the mudblood witch that has caught Krum’s eye. Even Madame Maxime, the one responsible adult in the room who is most familiar in balls and dances and the like, has abandoned her duties in favor of plastering her giant body against the gigantic groundskeeper.

Dumbledore observes the children losing themselves in the revelry of the night like a massive, hairy owl with twinkling eyes. Besides Barty, Dumbledore is perhaps the only of-age magic-user in the room who hasn’t touched any of the aged wine or bubbling champagne provided by the House Elves. Barty has kept an eye on him – an eye on _every_ threat in the room – so he knows that every time the Headmaster leans over to Barty and gently suggests that there are many fine, _single_ women here, the man is sane and sober. Which makes Barty question the “sane” part considering he’s _seen_ all of the details of Moody’s body and it is _nothing_ impressive. If he had the energy of his younger self, he’d go into more detail with words such as _wrinkled_ and _blotchy_ and _repulsive_ , but this isn’t the Ravenclaw dormitory filled with drunk teenagers trying to impress each other with word games.

Anyway, the majority of the professors here taught Barty 10 years ago (not that Dumbledore knows that) and are likely just as unattractive as Moody when all layers are removed.

He glares down at the shot of Firewhiskey he requested just for the aroma alone, cursing Moody’s well-known paranoia. Never mind that he’s brought plenty of his own alcohol with him to Hogwarts to numb the exhaustion of dealing with children all hours of the day; he can’t risk being observed eating or drinking. It would ruin his performance.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE, as the real Moody would say, if he wasn’t currently locked in a trunk and surrounded by his own filth.

Barty chuckles at the thought and finally slides his drink down the table to Dumbledore. He inclines his head once, meeting Dumbledore’s amused eyes. “Back to work,” he grumbles, his voice spelled to match Moody’s, “before one of the youngin’s trick me into a dance.” Barty habitually touches a hidden pocket in his robes to ensure his flask remains safe. Dumbledore’s attention follows the subtle movement, but Barty resists the urge to pull it out and mime drinking from it. So close to Dumbledore, he doesn’t dare risk the Headmaster catching a whiff of Polyjuice.

He backs off from the high table and makes his way around the students awkwardly against the walls or on the fringe of the dancing mass. He keeps his back straight and eyes – eye – forward as everyone in his path scatters out of his way. Perhaps it’s out of respect, since apparently he’s the best Defense professor in years, or perhaps they’re uncertain if Moody’s wand hand gets twitchy when he’s inebriated.

Either way, it’s a blessing. He’s been experiencing phantom pains for the last few hours, and simple numbing charms haven’t worked. Anything stronger, and he’d be even more wobbly and likely to tumble over. Wouldn’t that be a hoot.

Once he’s out of the hall and out of view of any straggling students, Barty pulls out his flask and shakes it. He suspects he has an hour left. Plenty of time to stagger all the way up to his private rooms for a refill.

He’s just about to finish the potion off when a group of third years catch the nearest stairs up. From the dread in their expressions and white slips of paper crumpled in their fists, it is obvious they had a run-in with Hogwarts’s residential bat. Their muddy boots further point to where they got caught: outside after curfew.

If Snape is patrolling the grounds, then his potion stock is unguarded. After the last near-miss, Barty had brought up the subject to his Lord, and his Lord suggested using the Room which can become All Rooms.

After a wandless, wordless Tempus (just to prove he still could), Barty follows the students up the stairs, far enough back that they don’t suspect anything amiss. He switches staircases soon after, moving himself to what looked to be creaky, rotting stairs with no hand railings that lead nowhere, but actually was a shortcut between the third floor and the eighth floor on Mondays and Saturdays and between the third floor and the sixth floor on Wednesdays.

The real Moody likely wouldn’t recognize the shortcut for what it is, but Barty’s hands begin to quiver and his scalp tingles and he cannot risk wasting time. He’ll only use the last few drops of Polyjuice in case of an emergency, such as if he comes along a teacher or someone powerful enough to sense the Disillusionment charm he wraps around himself like a mother’s embrace.

He reaches the seventh floor, every hair on his body standing straight on top of goosebumps in preparation to slowly, agonizingly, pull out their follicles and swiftly be replaced Barty’s natural blonde. He hates this part – he hates _all_ parts involving Polyjuice, but the hair growth is the worse. After having to regrow his leg. And after he has to regrow his eye. And after having to lose seven stones worth of fat and muscle.

Polyjuice is fully and completely awful, and the only reason why he doesn’t drop the whole charades in favor of powerful charms and glamors is because of Dumbledore. Dumbledore, who taught Barty for seven years and may be able to recognize the unique magical traces of all of his students. Dumbledore, who can shatter wards and dismantle semi-permanent transfigurations with a wordless wave of his wand. Dumbledore, who even that Dark Lord is wary of.

The only good thing about Polyjuice is that since it isn’t a spell, it can’t be broken with spellwork. Instead of just looking like Moody, Barty _becomes_ Moody. The magic that oozes from Barty’s pores is disgustingly Grey. Primarily Light, but thin trails of Dark swirl in his aura. The use of Unforgivables during the war has permanently tainted Moody’s magic. It tastes of ash and hypocrisy.

If he takes the last few drops of the potion, he’ll be alieved from the painful transformation. If he waits ten more minutes, he can wear his own skin again and surround himself with his own familiar magic. Even during his scarce trips out of the caste to meet with his Lord, Barty kept the smelly, old meatsuit on. He hasn’t had a break since a month before the fall semester began, jumping hoops for Dumbledore and the Order while also perfecting his admittedly rusty acting skills.

And now, the halls are empty and the night is still young and Barty is three passes away from the Room that does Not Exist. No one will notice if he goes missing for a few hours. Not even Bellatrix Lestrange, the most devout of the Death Eaters, wouldn’t be expected to remain undercover for months on end without blowing off some steam.

Barty’s current location is an ancient castle filled to the brim with children. Any true, illegal fun Barty could dream of will have to be put on hold as long as he remains within the cold walls of his chosen prison. The only reasonable activity he can do (though he does think that hexing mudbloods is completely reasonable) is to rub one out in a room that is not covered in piles of Moody’s possessions.

Because, ew. Gross. Disgusting. Moody is perhaps the least sexy thing that Barty has ever had the displeasure of dealing with. Just the thought of jerking off when knowing that Moody’s in the room (in a trunk, but still in the room) causes him to shudder.

He hobbles down the hallway. Once – somewhere warm and quiet. Twice – somewhere he won’t be disturbed. Three – somewhere he can access Snape’s potion supply without being caught (because he has a job to do, dammit).

The door is small. Faded cherry wood with a handful of gnarled knots, the bottom inch scuffed from use. Barty is by no means tall, nor is he while walking in Moody’s shoes, but the door is still unnecessarily short. It’s at a size that would be comfortable for neither an adult wizard nor a very vertically blessed house elf.

This will lead to the secret place that the Dark Lord is so proud of? A broom closet? The Pureblood Heir nestled deep within Barty sneers at the thought. If not for the Polyjuice wearing off, he would turn around and stomp down to the dungeons and not look back.

But returning to his own body is painful at best and causes his magic to spasm. He can’t hold onto his Disillusionment while keeping quiet while regrowing a leg and an eye.

He places his big, meaty hand on the doorknob and twists. The smudged brass only turns halfway before Barty has to forcefully yank it open. He slips in – as much as Moody is capable of slipping – and shuts the door behind him.

The Room is dim and he’s alone. With a flick of his wrist, Moody’s wand is in his hands. It stays quiet and obedient as he weaves wards into the door, accepting the magic Barty flows through it. The wand once fought and bit every time his magic touched it, but, much like its master, the fire died less than a month after being taken.

Barty drops onto his knees, stirring up a puff of dust, and shoves his sausage fingers into his eye. It burns like hell as he scoops out the glass orb replica. He grunts as it slips through his fingers – the eye socket is shockingly slimy – but he foregoes snatching it up. Barty unsnaps the bits of dragonhide leather holding his wooden leg against the marred stump.

He has just enough time to wave his hand, wordlessly and windlessly casting a silencing spell that stretches across his skin like a tight bodysuit.

The body of Alastor Moody curls on itself like a wilted (ugly) flower. His body shakes and his jaw aches open and he screams as he _melts._

Polyjuice isn’t meant to be taken for days on end, much less months. Magic is magic, but the human body has limitations. For Barty to remain as Moody for so long, he becomes Moody. His hair, his nails, every scar taught against his skin, they’re all Moody’s. And to stop being Moody, to become Barty again, he must shed himself of the fake.

Caterpillars have the luxury of metamorphosis. They are protected by the shell of the chrysalis, kept safe from the outside elements, given time to die and be reborn.

Caterpillars don’t have bones, and they don’t have to feel as every bit of their self shatters simultaneously, their innards swirling into mush of a similar consistency to the potion that caused all of this.

Metamorphosis lasts days to weeks.

Within a period of five minutes, every single hair and every millimeter of nail is ripped out of him. Fat weeps from his pores like lava forcing itself through cracks in rocks. His eye has to be rebuilt – spider-silk thin connectors attaching to his brain and keeping the organ still in the socket. His shin and foot grow layer by layer, starting with bone then muscle then fat then skin.

Barty is as hairless as the day he was born when he slumps to the ground, his robes sticking to the melted lard. His skin itches as fine, blonde hair finishes his transformation, but it’s forgotten under the shaking of limbs and fluttering of his heart as though he just went through a round of his Lord’s Cruciatus.

He lays in the mess of Moody, eyes closed as he listens to the soft, rhythmic gasps of breath, until he calms.

Barty, in the body that he’s proud to call his own, climbs to his elbows and knees. He ignores the squish of his robes and forces himself onto shaky legs. He summons his – Moody’s – wand and whisks away the grime that sticks to him and relocates the ‘magic’ eye and wooden leg from the floor to an enlarged pocket.

He finally looks around at the room. It’s taller than the door, thank the gods, but he still has to duck down to not hit his head on the slanted roof. He hadn’t noticed earlier due to being hunched over in pain.

The only light is from a dingy muggle light bulb, the glow of the little metal spiral weakly flickering. Muggle contraptions don’t work in the proximity of magic, so it is only an illusion. A very well-detailed illusion that never could have come from Barty’s mind. A little, dirty string hangs down from next to the light bulb. He doesn’t have the faintest idea of its purpose, but context clues suggest there must be a reason.

Just the sight of a muggle item sets Barty on edge. He parts his legs, feet parallel, with his wand held out from his body. He keeps Light defensive spells at the forefront of his mind in case a sudden duel breaks out. This Room isn’t of his own creation, but it could be from a student or house elf. A stunner and a precise Obliviate will solve any problems.

He keeps his breath even as he shuffles away from the door. It’s only perhaps five meters long. Claustrophobic. A short bookshelf halfway through blocks Barty’s ability to see the whole room. He strains his ears and listens to a whisper of cloth sliding against cloth.

His (Moody’s) wand tip glints red with a prepared stunner as he walks around it and into bright green eyes. He freezes. The hairs on the back of his neck rise in growing horror.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!

Of course, out of the hundreds of students in this damn school, it has to be fucking _Potter_. How does he even know about the Room? The Dark Lord suggested that he never told anyone else, and it certainly wasn’t common knowledge during Barty’s years at school.

(And the nosy, curious Ravenclaw in him wonders what exactly Potter was looking for when he got the room to appear for him – it’s an imitation attic. Dusty and decorated with cobwebs and humid enough to make Barty sweat under the many layers of wizarding robes. But he squishes all of this down because in the end, it doesn’t matter.)

Overcome with shock, he hesitates long enough for the brat to scramble onto his knees, the moldy mattress creaking under his weight. He sits back on his haunches, prepared to strike like a snake. Potter’s wand isn’t in sight, but he’s holding a shot glass in his fist close to his body.

Potter has no idea who this man is, yet he recognizes the threat and readies himself for a fight. His eyes stay on the glowing stunner Barty holds at the tip of the wand. Barty expects threats or demands from Potter. Instead, Potter speaks calm and quiet, body unnaturally still.

“I didn’t see anything,” Potter promises. “I’ve been drinking; I won’t remember you by morning. I swear.”

Barty takes a moment to reevaluate the scene before him. Potter’s old, bad-fitting dressing robes are a cheery vibrancy against the dullness of his surroundings. The fingers clutching the shot glass are white from tension. Sure enough, a small bottle of Firewhisky peeks out behind the folds of Potter’s spread robes, wax seal broken.

The longer he observes, the more he sees. The whites of Potter’s eyes are bloodshot and a pink blush dusts his cheeks. His ears are bright red. Barty spies the length of the boy’s wand in his robes, within reach yet not instinctively grabbed for protection. Potter moves as much as a statue, holding even his breath as though the slightest twitch will set Barty off.

By no means does he trust Potter; however, it is evident that he is currently not a threat. Attacking or acting rashly will bite Barty in the behind. If he plays his cards right, he might be able to keep his cover while also learning more about his target. The Dark Lord wishes Potter dead, but the execution is to be done by his own hands rather than a minion’s. Potter is Marked by the Dark Lord; he is owned by the Dark Lord in ways that Barty doesn’t quite understand. To cause Potter harm would be to attack the Dark Lord personally.

Potter is slippery, just like his parents. Barty has the power and skill necessary to murder the brat now, but the Dark Lord values his mind more than anything else.

It takes all of his mental fortitude to control himself and pull his magic back into his body, effectively cutting the power supply from the wand. The stunner’s red glow dies. Barty would love nothing more than to make Potter pay with blood and anguish for the suffering he’s caused, but after spending ten long years under his father’s Imperious, Barty has learned to be patient. Instead of killing the fire raging in his soul, he smothers it down to hot embers.

He keeps his wand trained on Potter as he kneels down. “Nothing? I find that hard to believe considering such a small room.” He keeps his voice low, not certain he won’t automatically speak like Moody.

The boy’s eyes widen a fraction and his Adam’s apple wobbles as he gulps, but Potter shows no other physical signs of his current mental state. Even without a stunner pointed at his face, the boy doesn’t relax. His attention flicks between Barty’s masked expression down to his shoulders down to his hands back up to his face. Whatever he’s looking for, he won’t find it. Barty keeps his body loose and languid even if he’s ready to fire off a wide range of complex curses.

“I heard you come in, but the bookshelf blocked my view. I heard some noises. I thought that if I stayed quiet and didn’t move, you would leave without noticing.” Potter’s explanation is horribly honest in its childlike thought process.

Barty doesn’t doubt it. He was involved in enough raids during the first war to understand how children deal when faced with unquestionable danger. Find shelter. Hide. Curl up and close your eyes and cover your mouth. It never worked because Death Eaters are nothing if not efficient as they are vicious. They always found the children. If the parents – the true targets – were still alive, then the kids were paraded around the house. They were used as another tool to cause pain.

Children don’t flee or fight. They remained still in their fear and take whatever violence that comes to them. And because the Dark Lord favored the youth of the magical world, they were put out of their misery before the initial shock wore off.

Everything from Potter’s posture to his quiet speech to his lack of fear screams acceptance. He knows he was caught and he knows that he’s cornered and he knows there is no escape. Submission will make the punishment quicker.

Barty slips his (Moody’s) wand back up into the sheath strapped to his forearm. “Alright. I believe you.” Without making any sudden movements, he sits down on the ground. “Sorry about that, kid. Thought I was alone, so I kinda freaked out.” He drops the polite Pureblood mannerisms and imitates the slang he hears his students use nowadays. He wracked his brain for a semi-reasonable excuse. “I, uh, had a fight with my girlfriend. Figured sneaking into Hogwarts during the Tournament when security was lax was my best bet to making up with her before she graduates in the spring.”

Let it be known that 90% of Barty’s intelligence involves magic and spells. He’s not a people person. He wasn’t one when at school, though he did enjoy the company of like-minded Death Eaters, and kept in isolation for years didn’t help that.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he curses himself. That has got to be the stupidest thing he’s ever heard of, and he went to school with fucking _Sirius Black_ , the king of absurd lies! He can’t take it back, so he dives into playing the part of a love-stricken young adult. Barty forces himself to look away from Potter and dip his head in shame. He fists his robes, adding to the image of shame.

Maybe he’ll get lucky and Potter won’t realize Barty is old enough to be his father. Maybe Potter won’t question regarding the fucked up nature of a random ass adult sneaking into a school full of kids.

Potter doesn’t necessarily relax, but he shifts his legs out from under him so he’s sitting, back against the cheap wooden wall and his knees pulled up to his chest. “That sounds…. Illegal.” Potter goes quiet for a long moment. When Barty doesn’t snap at him or get aggressive, he continues. “Have you tried just, um, talking to her?”

“…. No,” because she’s not real. “But I didn’t see her at the Yule Ball so, ah. Looks like she hasn’t moved on from me haha… I should probably leave before I get caught by someone…”

They both watch each other, waiting for the other to act first. Barty has hundreds of questions at the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t want to stay here any longer than what is needed to make Potter not think about this again. Also, he hasn’t been this mortified since the last time he had to be sponge-bathed by the House Elf chaperone he ditched months ago.

Fuck it. Barty leans forward, arm low and fingers outstretched, to snatch the bottle by Potter’s side. He doesn’t miss the way Potter presses against the wall he’s cornered himself in, or the way his eyes flicker back and forth between Barty’s hand and face, or the way he tightens hold of the shot glass again. Despite the casual conversation, despite being intoxicated, Potter remains attentive.

If Barty’s heart wasn’t already a shriveled-up raisin, he’d be concerned by all the signs. How has no one noticed it before? The boy is always surrounded, always monitored, always _watched_. Within a week of the semester beginning, even Barty noticed how every person here, teachers and students alike, watch Potter. Whenever he enters a room, whenever there’s a commotion, whenever he makes a sudden movement… It’s as though the entire world is obsessed, and it’s only gotten worse since the end of October.

Barty knows firsthand that abuse suffered as a child doesn’t define the individual, but open wounds only fester if left untreated.

Perhaps handing the boy to the Dark Lord on a silver platter will be an act of mercy.

He leans over again to pour a shot into the glass Potter is holding to his chest. Potter doesn’t expect it and jerks, the amber liquid splashing against his dress robes. Barty waves a hand and banishes the mess without thinking and refills, Potter holding out his hand this time now that he’s aware of Barty’s plans.

Barty taps the rim of the bottle against Potter’s shot glass. “Cheers. To fleeting freedom, and to finding happiness.”

Potter repeats the words, too caught up in his own embarrassment to consider them. They both drink the Firewhisky and they both wince at the expected burn. While Potter is still dazed, Barty pours him another shot for good measure. If Potter somehow doesn’t get blackout drunk from this, then he’s sure to have a splitting headache in the morning to keep him distracted.

Barty sets the bottle on the ground next to the mattress and rises to his feet, hunched over due to the slanted roof. “Take care, kid.”

He flees like the wimp he is, casting the strongest Disillusement charm he knows as he steps out of the Room. He only waits to watch the tiny door fade into the stone wall, as though it never existed, then sprints to his (Moody’s) private rooms.

Barty will have to beg for more potion supplies off of his Lord, but maybe the information he’s learned today with soothe the punishment he’s destined to receive.

**Author's Note:**

> yo. don't really have any plans for furthering this fic, but i'm really interested in your opinions! If i should continue, is there anything you'd like to see? what rating would you want (how far do they go wiggles eyebrows)? it would likely be harry slowly falling for barty-as-moody over the second half of the school. does barty play along (he's already p fucked up), or does he reject harry's advances and is disturbed by them? should they get funky while barty is still on polyjuice/before harry knows the truth? What about remaining completely platonic and instead further exploration of their similarities?
> 
> either way, it was fun to write. i have more hp ideas i'm itching to bang out asap. i've been a fan of the fandom for... at least ten years (hplv otp) but i never took the leap to write for it. decided to start with hpbcj (lmao what a horrible ship name) because it's been a recent craving of mine haha
> 
> (lmk if there are any hp/death eater communities out there bc i'm thirsty af)


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